


Sharp Sounds

by vassilissa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mild Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5689810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vassilissa/pseuds/vassilissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are sharp glass-cut sounds that echo in the great marble floors— Mourning sounds that let you know some things were never quite there at <i>all</i>, were they?</p><p>When I look at you, what do I <i>see</i>? What do I see, what do I <i>see</i>—</p><p>It ends or it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> why do I like problematic things? *sighs*

i.

 

You _hate_ it.

 

You think this is the first part. There will be more.

 

You’re right.

 

 

 

ii.

 

You always turned into a used trap with pretty things.

 

These pretty, bad things—they’re inevitable.

 

Inevitable circumstances were always a concept you disliked.

 

Yet you turned into one.

 

You turn into a lot of _things_.

 

Most of the time, they are just that. _Things_.

 

 

 

iii.

 

You’ve always strayed away from him.

 

You can’t anymore.

 

He makes it _inescapable_.

 

(— ** _Inevitable_**.)

 

 

iv.

 

Pretty, bad things find their way around you at some point.

 

Pretty, bad things _never_ stop finding their way around you, it seems.

 

So, pretty, bad things you hate.

 

You _hate_ them.

 

 

 

v.

 _He_ —a consecutive existence in your peripheral vision— takes your emerald coat, fixes your long, tamed, somewhat-wavy hair with the numerous crystals on it like he cares about it and offers you a glass of champagne as he sips on his own, silently observing — _always observing_ — Malfoy’s guests.

 

They all look like they’re walking barefoot on glass, careful not to stare too long.

 

Hermione smirks, hiding behind her champagne.

 

Here’s an observation for you, Tom Riddle.

 

You are surrounded by glass. We _all_ are.

 

And we can’t escape, the way you made us.

 

We can only eat at it. Eat and _bleed_.

 

 

 

vi.

 

“How was Vienna?”

 

She does not tear her gaze from the marbled floor.

 

“Terrific,” she answers absentmindedly. He waits. “Thank you,” she adds, as an afterthought.

 

He nods, humming. Puts one hand in the pocket of his black, tailored pants. Never the one with the ring. Always standing straight. All black and grey and white. Never color. Never not sharp. Chilling blue eyes and hollowed out cheeks. Only edges.

 

Don’t _cut_ yourself.

 

There would never pass enough time for her to forget him.

 

Inconsistency was a thing they both hated.

 

 

 

vii.

 

“I should’ve thought so,” he says in a pointed voice and she feels like she’s at fault.  “Given the fact you were so eager to _leave_.”

 

Such a casual tone he uses to tell her she left him.

 

“You know I get overly excited over such things.”

 

Sip, sip, sip. Swallow. Don’t look at him. Know how he is, but _don’t_ look _at him_.

“Yes, of course,” he offers.

 

She spots Avery, looking at them worriedly from the opposite side, where he stands with Mulciber and Crabbe, holding glasses of whiskey.

 

She smiles politely at him. He nods back.

 

There is unbearably posh music playing, the kind Tom likes to dance with her to, and her dress it too tight—so much tighter than it was a moment ago, when she hadn’t noticed it, and maybe she should’ve kept it that way, should have never even came in the first place, _but_ —

 

But these are things that will _never_ happen, would never be since she met him and there are a lot of things fucking wrong with her right now.

 

Sip, sip, sip. _Swallow_.

 

 

 

viii.

 

_You think that’s it? I let you do that, remember that. I let you talk. I let you walk away. When have I ever done that? When would I ever do that?_

Vertigo— Vertigo— _Hysteria_.

 

An acute sound that echoed again and again in her head, while it smashed, fell, destroyed—

 

The clicking of kitten heels in a rush, bursting out of the ballroom and seeking refugee for what’s about to happen, because he did it again, didn’t he?

 

He _did_. He _did_.

 

There is no safe place. Why is there never a _safe place_?

 

Vienna. She hadn’t _told_ him— He couldn’t _know_ —

 

He knew she went to Vienna. He couldn’t possibly know that.

 

He follows behind her. Footsteps calm. Patronizing.

 

 

 

ix.

 

There are people _everywhere_ — She _just_ needs to— If she could only get to— _Somewhere_ —

 

There is a library. She walks in. Doesn’t close the door, because he’d tear it down and welcome the gasps of horror and surprise.

 

Tom always liked that. To ambush.

 

He walks in. Closes, locks the door with a flick of his wrist.

 

He has never looked more beautiful.

 

 

 

x.

 

“You can’t keep leaving” me “like this. I might think you’re repulsed by my fucking presence or something, you know?” He chuckles and it’s a dark sound; a sound she mourns like all the others.

 

“Which you’re not, of course. I chose you. I _shaped_ you. You cannot do this.”

 

“You are deliriously _hungry_ … All.The.Time. You think you’re the worst thing you’ll ever know and you get _drunk_ of it.” Hermione falls on the armchair like she’s exhausted, skirt hitching up on her thighs, black garters showing like a suggestion or an always-there promise.

 

“Hermione.”  A condescending exclaim.

 

“Do _not_ —,” she makes a choked sound. “Do _not_ make me feel like a child. I am not a fucking _child_ , Tom.”

 

He approaches her. Breathing collected, stance straight, eyes as patronizing as ever.

 

He kneels in front of her. The dark ring greets her in what seems like the lighting playing tricks at her expense.

 

She looks down at him. He looks sad. He looks forgiving. He looks all the things he is when he’s with her.

 

He looks like he does not want anything to change.

 

 

 

xi.

 

This is the second part.

 

It’s because you hate inconsistency. It’s because he’s been a thing for a very long time.

 

He’s been here and he’s been there and he always is everywhere she is and so he is her shadow as much as she is his and perhaps this is where they meet, two shadows together, clawing and hanging and lingering—

 

This is most definitely the second part.

 

She does not hate it as much as she is tired of it.

 

 

 

xii.

 

“You’ve seen me.” And he pleads, a monster of a boy, and there is something terrifying, because—

 

Because it is the _monster_ begging this time. Not the boy. And she is not used to this.

 

She does not know this.

 

“You’ve _seen_ me.”

 

Tears brim at her eyes. “It was _horrible_. It was horrible, horrible, horrible…”

 

“It was necessary,” he firmly states, settling his palms on her thighs, gripping them tightly.

 

 _Necessary_.

 

“I did not mean to see. I did not mean— But it was horror, it was— _How_ —” She shakes her head, dropping her gaze to his hands caressing her legs instead.

 

“If I did not go through with it, it’d kill me,” he whispers and it is too much like static, a thing that resonates in between her bones, and repeats itself until there’s _nothing_.

 

“It was necessary,” she breathes, like a brainwashed imbecile, like one of his stupid followers, like it doesn’t fucking matter _whatsoever_ and she hates _all_ of it.

 

It is a cruel smile he smiles at her.

 

“Good girl.”

 

 

 

xiii.

 

The lights go off.

 

She doesn’t even get to act bewildered, as he picks her up by the hips and stands her up. He sits on the armchair, grabs the behind of her knees and brings her between his legs, unbuttoning her skirt and tearing her garters.

His mouth is on her skin and her hands find his hair, tugging and reaping. His hands grip and bruise and pain, but all these things are welcomed because it’s him and this is the only way he knows, the only way he has learned and there is no other way when it comes to this and them.

 

She bucks her hips on instinct and she can make out the outline of his smile on her thighs. His fingers find her blouse and there’s the sharp sound of fabric tearing, before he tugs it off of her.

 

He makes her kneel next. Her knees hit the carpeted marble so suddenly it hurts even when he kisses the pain away.

 

He puts two fingers under her chin and lifts it so that their eyes can meet and it’s _exhilarating_. He kisses her then.

 

He rarely kisses her. It doesn’t shock her.

 

It’s hard. Hard and brutal and ruthless, but not quite— absolute and completely everything he’s made of.

 

He messes her hair up, letting all the crystals crush and vanish in the corners of the floor— Everything. It can be _everything_.

 

She goes to unzip his pants, when he grabs her forearms. She looks at the icy blue, having adjusted to it and he looks back, not with question, but scoldingly.

 

“Would you have wanted to do that?” he asks her with a rough voice.

 

Hermione only smiles.

 

“Not tonight,” he says and it’s final.

 

 

 

xiv.

 

When he finally sits her on top of him, both ready and needy, Hermione drops her head at the nape of his neck, breathing hot and heavy on him.

 

He growls when he enters her. It’s an animalistic sound that almost drives her over the edge.

 

Then she bounces on her own, in the dark, even in the dark, maybe especially in the dark, because they both know this, it’s theirs, it’s what makes them work and what sobers them and it is not a matter of modesty or keeping appearances anymore.

 

It’s hot. Too hot. And they’re dripping with sweat and there are only two sounds echoing in the huge library of Malfoy Manor and it’s him and it’s her and it’s there, right there, oh my God, and he always does that, manages to do that, because he knows her and he knows her body and she knows that he would do everything with her, because she is his match and there will never be another for him, never be another for her too, and he whispers her this while he’s pounding into her and she’s stopped moving now, lets him do all the work, because this feels amazing, this feels explicitly good, yes, yes—

 

He leaven open-mouthed kisses in between her breasts, his raven-black hair tickling her chest and there’s this ecstasy building up inside her, makes her see black spots and shut her eyes, hold onto Tom’s shoulders for dear life, because she swears she’s falling, she’s crashing, she’s burning up, she’s always burning up, it is never going to stop is it, and—

 

There’s a monster of a boy underneath her and he’s writhing, he’s waiting, but he’s coming undone and that happens when she does it exactly right, when he gives her the chance, when they’re in it together and it is not only him, pleasing himself or taking charge as he does with all things and he mutters _fuck_ over and over again like he’s not getting enough—

 

He stills. Grabs her hips, stands up, throws her in the armchair, opens her legs and resumes his pounding.

 

He circles his hand around her throat. She coughs because it was unexpected and moans. Moans again. He squeezes slightly. She holds her breath. Squeezes some more, slowing down now.

 

Choking. He wants to choke her.

 

She grabs his sides and moves him inside her. She doesn’t want this. It’s not new, but she doesn’t want to do it.

 

He stops. Puts his knee on the chair, pulls out, keeps his hand wrapped around her neck.

 

She claws and grabs, but he’s unrelenting.

 

“No,” she manages to rasp. “Tom. No. This is bad— You’re not doing this to me,” she says, like she’s talking to a kid.

 

His eyes shine in the dark, as he brings his face close to hers.

 

“You don’t know bad. You’ve _no **fucking**_ idea,” he mutters acidly.

 

“You leaving me was bad. You disobeying me was fucking _bad_. You leaving your room was bad. You are never to do these things again, Hermione, do you understand? ‘Cause this is a game I play very well.”

 

It burns.

 

Her throat burns.

 

She nods, fighting for breath. He’s not giving it to her.

She should have expected this. How foolish of her.

 

He doesn’t squeeze no more. But he’s not letting her breathe, either. She’s at his mercy.

 

“It burns, doesn’t it?” he whispers, lips close to her ear. “Do you? Do you still burn for what I can give you? For what I offer?”

 

She mutters his name. His eyes soften. Or they don’t. It does not end.

 

Her eyelids flutter. She feels light-headed from the struggle.

 

“Stop moving or you’ll faint,” he barks and she stills.

 

“No, then? Huh? No?” His cock teases her entrance. “No, Hermione? **_Answer_**.”

 

“I—”

 

“Will you ever?” And he’s rubbing. Then he’s pushing in. She draws a dry breath. She tries to cough. He doesn’t let her.

 

She’s afraid. She isn’t. This ends or it doesn’t. She never knows.

 

“For me?” he continues, breathing hard on the side of her face. “For _me_?” he sounds uncertain; _scared_.

 

“You left me. You fucking _left_ me.” And he’s moving incredibly fast, it’s incredibly hard and he’s hitting everything and she cannot even breathe—

 

Her eyes go wide.

 

“How could you do it? How could you leave me? How could you leave me?!” And he’s yelling now and she focuses on the sounds on the other side of the door, where people’s whispers can be heard and there are attempts of unlocking the door.

 

He grabs her chin. Makes her look at him. Makes her face the monster. It’s hungry. It’s scared of itself. It’s _livid_.

 

He’s tearing her apart.

 

She cries out. She’s in _pain_.

 

It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t _stop_ —

 

 

 

xv.

 

He removes his hand.

 

They both come. It’s a relief like no other. She wants away.

 

Air rushes through her lungs and she cannot stop coughing. She pushes him away—He brings her close. She does it again—He does the same. She picks her skirt and her blouse up. She wears them. She’s leaving. She’s finding her wand, she’s fixing her clothes and she’s _leaving_ —

 

“Would you _ever_?” He says hopelessly, on his knees, a mess and she does not even blink.

 

Sometimes she forgets he’s just a boy. Sometimes it’s bigger than them both.

 

Sometimes it’s easy to forget. Convenient.

 

“Open this door immediately!” A male voice shouts in frustration.

 

“I would,” she breathes. “I would, I would…” She has been reduced to cry now, since it’s the only thing he has not taken from her and—

 

He _comes_ to her.

 

 

 

xvi.

 

He unlocks the door only when she’s put her heels on and everything is back to its place, not a hair stray, even though they both know they can’t hide.

 

He’s holding her waist like it’s the only thing holding him up and she does not even glance at the people she knows, as Tom throws a nasty look at Abraxas who’s been yelling at his _Master_ all this time.

 

“I expect you at the meeting tomorrow, Malfoy,” is what he says and they both know what it means.

 

Hermione ignores it all.

 

As far as she’s concerned it’s just a meeting.

 

 

 

xvii.

 

_When I look at you, what do I see? What do I see, what do I see—_

 

Absolution, you think.

 

Everything, at times. Nothing. You don’t _know_.

 

This is the third part.


End file.
